Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  "Hold on, Lacey," Max said. "You'll never reach Covent Garden in time if you have to drive all the way back to Berkeley Square. Go on with Loring. I'll see your young cousin safely home."

  Thomas looked back and forth between them, apparently weighing his brotherly obligations.

  "Don't worry, Tommy. Max and I are old friends. You can trust him to take me back to Fanny's."

  He cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but was distracted by Mr. Loring's urgent pleas to hurry. "All right," he said at last, and offered a hand to Max. "Thanks, Davenent. See that she gets home safely." He was out the door a moment later.

  Chapter 11

  "Well, my Ganymede," Max said, "let us be off."

  She looked every bit as appealing as she had at the masquerade and he wanted to get her out of here before those long, shapely legs led him to make a public fool of himself.

  "Oh, Max, can we not stay for a while longer? I would love to learn to play hazard, though I confess I haven't much money."

  "I could not let you lose what little you have in such a place, my dear. It's a fast game, and the bank will have your poor blunt before it's out of your pocket."

  "Can you not show me how it is played without the bank? Could I not simply play against you, with no stakes?"

  Dammit all, she was tenacious as a terrier. "You are a stubborn minx, aren't you? Let me see if a private room is available."

  Within a few moments, Max was leading her into a small room in the back, one of many used for private games with private stakes. A waiter carried in a steaming silver bowl and two goblets, then retired, pulling a heavy velvet drapery across the door.

  The other patrons would no doubt think he'd found himself a plump young pigeon to pluck in private. Or worse. But if she insisted on staying, her disguise might be discovered, so it was best to keep her away from prying eyes. Of course, having her all to himself was no small advantage.

  "We shall make a night of it, my little minx. Imaginary stakes and rum punch. It's a bit chilly for May. This brew should warm our bones."

  "Rum punch? How marvelous! I've never tried it."

  He poured her a glass and she sipped cautiously. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, then she took a long swallow. She closed her eyes and he could almost feel her savoring the sweetness of rum and the tang of lemon juice as it slid down her throat. Head thrown back, lips slightly parted in a blissful smile, she looked positively beatific. If he hadn't been afraid of someone interrupting them, he'd have kissed her then and there.

  "You look like you've died and gone to heaven," he said.

  She opened her eyes and smiled. "Not yet. Oh, Max, it is delicious. This is one thing I begrudge men keeping to themselves. Shall I tell you about my evening?"

  And she did. He joined in her excitement over the Fives Court match, and laughed at her description of the unintelligible language and gin-induced choking at the Daffy.

  "Are these breeches roles going to become a habit with you, my girl?"

  "I confess, it is more comfortable to be unencumbered by skirts. But I doubt I shall take up the style permanently."

  "After tonight, you must surely have completed everything on your list. Can there be anything left you have not yet done?"

  She gave him a look worthy of the most skilled temptress. "I have not played hazard," she said.

  And so Max set about explaining the rules, which were simple enough, and demonstrating how to keep track of the odds. They laughed and played and drank for more than an hour. When he realized she was becoming tipsy from the punch, he decided it was time to leave.

  "Remember, minx, you are young Mr. Ross Lacey. Keep steady and keep quiet. And for God's sake, don't giggle."

  She did giggle, but recovered quickly, standing straight and tall when he pulled back the velvet curtain.

  He collected his winnings, paid his shot, and bundled Rosalind out the door. She remained admirably composed and steady on her feet while he hailed a hackney, but collapsed into a limp heap once inside. She fell against him, so warm and soft he wanted to devour her. He lifted her onto his lap and she snuggled up to him like a kitten. She lifted her face and said, "Kiss me, Max. Make my toes curl."

  "With pleasure, madam."

  The punch had affected them both, and their kiss was long and slow and succulent. They kissed until the hackney came to a stop. "You are disastrous to my reputation, minx. I am forever being seen kissing a young boy."

  "Then let us go somewhere more private, where we will not be seen."

  There was no mistaking her invitation. It was what he wanted, what he had wanted for weeks, and now it was apparently what she wanted, too. But was it only the punch talking?

  "Are you sure, Rosalind?"

  She smiled at him with the same rapture held seen when she first tried the rum punch. "Quite sure."

  "I would not have you regretting it tomorrow."

  "I will only regret it if you do not make love to me, Max."

  Oh, God. "Rosalind." He kissed her again, forgetting himself until the driver slid back the opening and asked if his bloody lordship was going to be all night.

  Max lifted Rosalind out and paid the driver, who hurried off muttering something about Queer Street and the Quality.

  "Where are we?" Rosalind asked.

  "At my house. We're on Mount Street, just a few steps from Berkeley Square. It's not too late to change your mind, Rosalind. I am happy to walk you home. Perhaps we have both had too much punch and a walk in the cool night air will do us good."

  She placed a hand on his chest and fingered his lapel. "I thought you were a notorious rake, Max, but here you are trying like mad to talk me out of making love with you. Why?"

  He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. "Because you are not just any woman, Rosalind. You are not like all the rest, who are easy enough to toss between the sheets and then forget. If we make love, I am afraid it will be quite unforgettable."

  "So am I, Max. I will be so disappointed if you do not take me inside and make it so."

  "There is nothing I would rather do, minx. Come along, then." He took her hand and led her up the steps, using his key to unlock the door. Once inside, he swept her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

  * * *

  Rosie lay curled up on her side watching Max sleep. Fanny had been right once again. It had been the most glorious, most wonderful, most extraordinary experience of her life.

  They had undressed each other frantically, flinging clothes all about the room. But then Max had taken charge and made slow, delicious, exquisite love to her. Simply being naked with him had been the most incredible thrill. He was beautifully made, with broad chest and slim waist, and she explored every inch of him while he made magic with his hands and mouth in exploration of her own body. He had driven her to the edge of frenzy before he had finally entered her.

  There had been only a brief moment of pain for Rosie, and a brief moment of surprise for Max. He had looked down at her and smiled so tenderly it made her feel like weeping.

  "I wasn't sure," he said. "But I'm glad. You have me thoroughly besotted, Rosalind, and I don't want to share you with any man. Have I hurt you?"

  "No," she had said. "And please don't stop, Max. Just love me."

  And he did, quite thoroughly, whispering words of love over and over, which she answered in kind, until she had reached an almost unbearable pinnacle of pleasure and shuddered her release beneath him.

  She could die now. The disease could take her right this minute and she would die happy. She had achieved the perfect memory, just as Fanny had said. She had made love with a man she adored, and who loved her in return.

  Or did he? He had told her that he sometimes fell in love in the heat of passion, but that the feeling always passed.

  It did not matter. All she had hoped for was a single moment of love, however fleeting. It need not be a lasting passion. In fact, it was better if it was no more than momentary for she could not promise anything longer.
She had achieved her moment of love, and it had been utterly splendid. She had fulfilled all her dreams, and more, for she could never have dreamed anything could be so wickedly wonderful.

  Rosie smiled as she watched him sleep. There was something to be said about making love with a rake. All that practice had made him perfect. She could not have asked for a more masterful lover.

  But perhaps Max would feel awkward in the morning, knowing he had spoken words of love and knowing he hadn't meant them. Rosie had no wish to make it difficult for him. It would be best if she slipped quietly away before he awoke, thus avoiding a potentially uncomfortable situation. And though she had more or less given her blessing to such an occasion, Fanny might be worried if Rosie did not come home before morning.

  She inched toward the edge of the bed, taking care not to jostle Max and wake him. Locating her clothes was difficult, especially in the dark. They were strewn in every corner of the room, entwined with Max's clothes. She managed to find them all and got dressed quickly, leaving her neckcloth loose and untied.

  As she glanced in Max's shaving mirror, illuminated by no more than a sliver of moonlight through a gap in the shutters, she saw something propped up against the back of the washstand. Leaning closer, she recognized it as the print of The Scarlet Waltz, showing her and Max dancing together. Thomas had said Max was a frequent target of the caricaturists, but she could see no other prints in the room. It pleased her that he kept it. She wished now that she had taken the one Thomas had offered.

  Rosie tip-toed down the stairs and made her way out the front door without disturbing the household. It was not quite dawn, too early for the servants to be about. She walked up Mount Street to where it joined Davies Street, then turned left to enter Berkeley Square. She had her own key, since she often kept such late hours, and let herself into Fanny's house.

  When she reached her room, exhaustion vied with exhilaration to overwhelm her. She could not have slept if she tried. Images of Max and all he'd done to her swam drunkenly in her head. Her body still ached, pleasantly so, where he had worked inside her. His musky scent still clung to her skin. How could anyone sleep after such a momentous experience?

  But fatigue took its toll as well. It had been a long day. She had been shopping with Lady Kirby, paid calls with Fanny, and driven in the park with Mr. Hepworth. She had then gone to her brother's rooms and begun her transformation into Ross Lacey. She had hardly spent more than five minutes in Berkeley Square.

  On such busy days, any letters, invitations, or calling cards for Rosie were left on her dressing table. Three letters awaited her now. She undressed and washed her face before taking the letters with her to bed, where she propped herself on a mound of pillows, ready to read.

  The first letter was from Jeremy Aldrich, and included a florid ode to Miss Lacey's Eyes. She shuddered and tossed it aside. The second was from her sister Pamela, full of news from home and a hint that she might be increasing. She wrote of the vicar's new wife and how her mother was coming to live at the vicarage. She wrote of the recent betrothal of Sally Griggs and Matthew Penwarren, and of how little Robbie Bascom had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. She also related an odd bit of news about the new earthenware manufactury in the district being temporarily closed down. Apparently, residual cobalt and other minerals had been dumped into Kennott Rill—an Otter tributary that fed many local pools and ponds—causing sickness among people who drank from those waters. The district council had closed the manufactury down until the owners developed another method of waste disposal. Pamela said it was big news in the district—it must be to warrant an entire paragraph in her sister's cramped script—and that several of Papa's tenants had been taken ill.

  The last letter was from Sir Nigel Leighton, and filled several pages. Rosie shuddered with a twinge of anxiety and irritation. No matter how wondrous the evening, there was always her blasted illness to consider. What, though, could the physician have to say to her that required so many sheets? She took a deep breath and read.

  He began with a scold, chastising her for never being at home and forcing him to write instead. After several more lines criticizing her late nights and busy days, he got to the point.

  "I have received a letter from Dr. Urquhart," he wrote.

  It confirmed my suspicions regarding your mother's illness. He says that Lady Lacey suffered a fall from her horse in 1805, during which accident she struck her head. The injury, though externally minor, caused damage to her brain resulting in a form of epilepsy, which you may know as the falling sickness. The social stigma attached to the condition and its attendant seizures compelled her to keep it secret. Besides Dr. Urquhart, only your father and your mother's nurse knew of it. I would not now break the confidence promised your mother were it not for your own present concerns.

  Your mother's headaches and dizziness and especially the coldness in extremities generally preceded a seizure. Apparently, she was successful in sensing when one was about to overtake her, and retired out of view of the rest of the family before it took hold. It is a remarkable testament to her tenacious will and prodigious efforts at controlling the condition that none of you ever witnessed a seizure.

  It was during a particularly violent seizure that Lady Lacey struck her head again, this time on the sharp corner of some piece of furniture. Unfortunately, this blow was fatal.

  So I can tell you that while your mother's death was indirectly caused by her epilepsy, the condition alone did not kill her. It is not generally a fatal condition. And your mother's form of epilepsy, caused by a blow to the head, is not in any way hereditary.

  The conclusion is, Miss Lacey, that you are not suffering from epilepsy.

  As to the cause of your headaches, Dr. Urquhart reports that a local china works factory has lately been discovered to be disposing of mineral wastes, particularly cobalt and manganese, into a stream that feeds many local ponds and pools, including one on your father's estate. He has seen many patients suffering from cobalt poisoning as a result, a condition with symptoms that can include headache, dizziness, blurred vision, and coldness in the extremities. I suspect, Miss Lacey, that your own symptoms are those of cobalt poisoning, a result of some sort of repeated contact with the tainted water, especially when we consider the fact that the symptoms ceased when you came to London.

  You may rest assured that you are not going to die from your symptoms. Cobalt poisoning is not fatal. I am persuaded that any headache etc, you have suffered since coming to London is a direct result of dissipation. Overindulgence in drink can—

  Rosie stopped reading and dropped the pages onto her lap. She sat for several moments, frozen with astonishment.

  Could it be true? She was not going to die?

  She had drunk from Wycombe Pond, which was not only fed by Kennott Rill but also by a natural spring. The fresh mineral water was a guilty pleasure she indulged often as she rode about the estate, so often that any poisoning of the water would surely have affected her. And all because of the factory that produced those lovely blue and white transferware dishes she so admired.

  It was incredible news. It was miraculous. It was sensational.

  She was not going to die!

  She began bouncing on the bed in her excitement. Dear God, she was not going to die! She was not! Tears of joy clouded her vision as she bounced up and down like a schoolgirl. She was not going to die.

  And then realization slammed into her gut like a giant fist and twisted her stomach into knots.

  Oh God. Oh no, no, no. This was terrible news. Dreadful. Horrible. She was not going to die.

  She had spent the last two months living literally as though there was no tomorrow, behaving scandalously, doing outrageous things, shaming her family—all because she was going to die so none of it mattered. And now she wasn't going to die?

  Dear God in heaven, she had just lost her virginity, given it away, ruined herself with a notorious rake, and now she wasn't going to die?

  She let out a wai
l of despair. "No, no, no!" she moaned, and pounded the mattress with her fists. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! She was supposed to die. She would never have done any of those things if she'd known she wasn't going to die. Wearing immodest, revealing dresses. Racing curricles through the park. Waltzing without permission. Attending Opera House masquerades. Publicly castigating her uncle. Dressing as a boy to attend sparring matches, gin mills, and gaming hells. Giving up her virginity to Max.

  She would have done none of it if she had known she was not going to die.

  Instead, she would live to face the consequences.

  Panic grabbed her by the throat. The consequences. She thought of what had just occurred between her and Max and began to feel sick with dread. What if...

  It was too late. The damage was done. She now had to face the consequences of her actions, to pay the price for impropriety, for self-indulgence, for wanton recklessness. How was she to do it? She was no longer the dashing Miss Lacey up to every rig and row. That mask had been removed forever upon reading Sir Nigel's letter. She was just plain Rosie again, the brown country mouse.

  How on earth was Rosie of Wycombe Hall going to live with the repercussions of all the mischief, and perhaps worse, created by Rosalind of Berkeley Square? How was she to face her father, knowing she had brought shame and scandal to his name by casually tossing her own reputation to the winds? And Ursula. What would her sister do if and when she discovered all that Rosalind had done? Would her family ostracize her? Send her off to live in some remote village in the north with a paid companion? Thomas knew what she'd been up to, of course, and would likely help to conceal as many of her crimes as possible. He would not think the worse of her for what she'd done. But he did not know she'd ruined herself with Max.

  Fanny would surely be disappointed to discover all her efforts had been for naught, that the country mouse could not be so easily transformed, that she was her father's daughter after all. Fanny had several times said that Rosie reminded her of herself in younger days. She wanted Rosie to be like her, but she was not. Without that false death sentence, Rosie would never have been so brave, so capricious, so eager to try anything, to defy convention, to flout propriety. It had all been a sham.